L'Sarol
by manic-intent
Summary: Artemis Entreri, trapped in the Underdark, agrees to play The Game, where he will carry a weapon – L’Sarol d’l’Sargtlin – and play the role of L’Sargtlin, the Warrior. To win is to kill the other players – and to lose is to die…
1. L'Sargtlin

Title: L'Sarol

Author: Anya al'Nighter

Email: anyasy@singnet.com.sg

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Set between Starless Night and Legacy… but not many spoilers about the books, since it goes off canon.

Summary: Artemis Entreri, trapped in the Underdark, agrees to play The Game, where he will carry a weapon – _L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin_ – and play the role of L'Sargtlin, the Warrior. To win is to kill the other players – and to lose is to die… 

Note: Ideas about L'Sarol are due to my having read far too much Witchblade for my own good. Oh yes – I love Ian Nottingham.

Disclaimer: L'Sarol is based on the Witchblade, owned by Top Cow Comics, Marc Silvestri, David Wohl, Michael Turner and Brian Haberlin, a beautifully drawn comic. Artemis Entreri, Menzoberranzan, Jarlaxle and most associated characters and places belong to TSR and Salvatore, the Forgotten Realms.

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Part 1

L'Sargtlin

"The _rivvil_ Artemis Entreri. He will be Player _Sargtlin_."

"A _rivvil_, _malla Yathallar_?"

"He is capable – and expendable. Take the _faerbol velve_."

"Will he…"

"He will have _L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin_ in its place."

"Will, _malla Yathallar_?"

A smile in the darkness. "_Will_."

**

The drinking pit _Qaynstone _operated on paradox. It was situated in the dark elven city of Menzoberranzan, yet most of its patrons appeared to be _colnbluth_, non-drow. It was suitably noisy and crowded, yet if one looked closely; all the tables seemed carefully unaware of each other, or uncaring of each other. Only the waiters and waitresses acknowledged the existence of all of them, like metaphorical fish in the channels between island tables. Weapons were allowed in the drinking pit on the precise knowledge that if a person or several persons attempted to start a fight, everyone would immediately turn on them. In a city ruled by matrons, this drinking pit was commonly recognized as one of the neutral grounds, the unspoken rule being _Xuat vith xuil ussa xor usstan orn vith xuil dos_, to put it crudely if accurately. Neither too clean or too dirty, patrons a mix of rags and finery, species, race, occupations – a conglomeration of life that would seem very disparate from that which would appear in, say, Narbondellyn or Eastmyr.

That suited a lot of _colnbluth_ and some dark elves curious about outsiders. _Qaynstone was_ a good place to wet the throat, fill the stomach, and conduct meetings, transactions, or just to enjoy a period of relative privacy. Currently involved in the latter activity was a figure cloaked and hooded in black such that only a clean-shaven jaw with tanned brown skin could be seen, mouth set in a thin line of fear, anger or dismay – it was hard to tell. The figure leant against the back of the tattered cushions of his chair, alone at his table, occasionally fingering his tankard which emitted the soft green glow of one of the stranger types of mushroom wine as if unsure of whether it was safe to drink.

Here in _Qaynstone_, the species – _human_ - of the figure would have hardly caused the reaction it would have had in the sections of the city where the dark elves were more numerous.

Artemis Entreri, once the greatest assassin of surface-world Faerun's Calimport, sat as unobtrusively as possible in the drinking pit, feeling disoriented, numb, furious, hysterical and amused at the same time. It was a curious sensation as the different emotions in him strove for dominance, and after some consideration, he allowed amusement to take centre stage before studying his surroundings with a calmer eye. Much preferring that to returning to the heavy regret he felt for agreeing to come to Menzoberranzan with Jarlaxle. 

A group of duergar played at cards raucously at the next table, thumping the blunt end of their axe shafts on the table in emphasis whenever one thought he had scored a point, speaking in their harsh tongue. There was guttural laughter and some form of primal comradeship.

Some svirfneblin on higher chairs so as to fit at the tables, murmuring to themselves but looking completely at ease, wearing unassumingly plain clothes and keeping their hands on the table where they could be seen.

Githyanki, tall, stilted, yellow-skinned… a table of orcs of which type he'd never seen before, with dirty dark brown fir and wearing lurid mustard-yellow clothing… some humans all wearing variants of rings that would allow them vision in the Underdark… 

He considered going over to speak with the humans – any of them – for all of them sat together at a few tables that had been haphazardly fitted together, joking loudly in the Common tongue of the surface. Entreri was surprised to find how much he missed the sound of it, crude as it seemed next to the musical dark elven speech he had been attempting to learn. He had difficulty finding teachers in that, even in Bregan D'aerthe – his only willing teacher so far was Jarlaxle, and the mercenary leader was busy lately, what with Baenre demanding his attentions.

At least he'd mastered the finger code, which was more rudimentary than the actual dark elven language and without all the subtle insinuations that different words could insert. Sometimes speaking dark elven was like trying to say two things or more at the same time using the same words. Needless to say, Entreri wasn't particularly good at that, having spent most of his adult life speaking with weapons and violence instead of devising word games. Speaking too long with Jarlaxle gave him a headache.

As to the dark elven females… 

Entreri's hands went instinctively for the hilts of his weapons when someone sat down at his table. Only the rule about no fighting stopped him from unsheathing them as he said curtly, "This table is private."

"You looked like you needed company." 

Entreri realized with some confusion that he had spoken in Surface Common – and the intruder had replied in the same tongue, albeit with a thick accent. Suspicious, but also intrigued, he narrowed his eyes, grateful that _Qaynstone_ used enough mage lights such that he could utilize his normal 'night' vision. Many places in the city seemed to be obsessed with the Surface – there were shops where one could buy surface plants, foods, birds and animals, weapons, books… this probably reflected something about the dark elven psyche, but Entreri could not be bothered to try and verify his suspicions. Not to mention it'd be quite impossible.

The abundantly female intruder wore a tight black dress of soft leather, the hem of which was just a tad higher up the legs than was actually decent, in Entreri's opinion. That, along with the elbow-length black gloves and long, high-heeled boots of the same material hinted at her chosen occupation. A thick belt of brown leather and silver encircled her hips loosely, though the crimson hooded cloak with gold embroidery of random spirals drawn around her prevented Entreri from seeing if there were any weapons concealed. The cloak was clasped above her small breasts with a heavy circular adamantite brooch in the shape of a leaping fox… no, a vixen, Entreri realized, as the detail became more apparent. There was a faint aroma of light perfume that smelt expensive.

She looked like a dark elven female… except that the waist-long hair and the eyes were a deep burnished gold in hue. Her attitude towards him was also startling – instead of the disgust he normally incited with dark elves, she seemed… curious. Not the curiosity one reserved for strangers – but more of the sort one reserved for something one had heard of but had never seen before.

Come to think of it, she didn't seem to be as slender as dark elves should be, and she certainly seemed to be tall… 

"Your ears," Entreri said bluntly.

She grinned impishly. "Your hands," she replied, mimicking his tone.

Not knowing why he did, he put his hands on the table where they would be plainly seen, unarmed, and she winked as she twitched back her hair for a moment. Her ears, though pointed, were not as long as a dark elf's.

Entreri groped for the word for 'half elf'. "_Tu'rilthiir_," he accused, puzzled to find a hint of playfulness in his voice. Perhaps it was because he was starved for company in a friendless, unfamiliar world, or perhaps it was because the half-drow was supposedly a myth, since no self-respecting dark elf would… or would they? Entreri found the dark elven society rooted in constant flux. It was no telling what they would do, and he wondered if his hunger for learning and receiving communications and words had to do with that – vain attempts to keep afloat and to understand.

And, to be honest about it, she was a pretty face, and he hadn't had female company for a while – female company that didn't treat him like some sort of disgusting slug, that is. Dark elves.

"_Rivvil_," she replied, a little mockingly. "Now we're even."

"You thought I needed company?"

"Doesn't everyone?" The half elf extended one slender-fingered hand. "Name's Hierathe d'Aerth." 

"Prostitutes also have a House?" Entreri raised an eyebrow, unwilling to offer his name, though he shook her hand. The drow word for 'prostitute', _Ssins d'Aerth_, was, with some irony, also the same as 'professional entertainer'.

"An organization… but yes, 'House' is also accurate," Hierathe looked at Entreri for a long moment. "Hmmm. You are Artemis Entreri."

Entreri blinked. "How… ?"

"You have been indiscreet," Hierathe said in much the same dispassionate tone as a bored teacher would chide a young pupil. "Walking in the wrong areas, and spreading the wrong type of chaos. There may have been distinctions in surface worlds, but Menzoberranzan is _quite _different." She grinned suddenly, spontaneously, as if having just cracked a private joke.

"Who sent you?" Entreri asked suspiciously. 

"Someone who has grown quite tired of having to clean up your messes," Hierathe replied mildly, tapping her fingers against her cheek thoughtfully as if trying to recall comments. "Oh, and someone who wishes that you would be taught to correct your _terrible_ accent." 

Entreri was very sure she was laughing at him now – but he was careful not to get angry. _Tu'rilthiir _or not, he was quite certain that she must have had some powerful protection or some sort of skill, or she wouldn't have lasted in this city. The popular drow attitude towards the half-breeds was just about as insalubrious as their attitude towards humans.

The fingers against her cheeks idly began to weave delicate patterns, and Entreri kept his expression as bored as possible as he watched the patterns, all the while continuing the conversation. "What is wrong with my accent?"

"You pronounce the vowels wrongly, and your structure is wrong. Keep to monosyllables if you do not intend to improve." Hierathe smirked. "Also, if you do wish to explore, do it in the Braeryn, the Bazaar or in Manyfolk, instead of lurking around the other sectors where there are more dark elves."

"This someone we are speaking of… does he have the fashion sense of a hallucinating orc?"

Hierathe laughed in a strange, noiseless fashion, but neither confirmed nor denied his suspicions. So far, if he had understood the finger-code she was using correctly, she had invited him to come and talk somewhere more private, she gave him her word she meant him no harm, and she wished an exchange of information and items – and she did not wish him to reply in any form, as his finger-code movements were likely to be as clumsy and crude as his pronunciation. 

_And if I refuse? _He replied anyway, his fingers half-hidden by the tankard on his table.

"That you have to judge," she said, and leant against the tapping hand, which for a moment flattened out four fingers to point at him, thumb pressed beneath between the middle and ring finger, twitching forward and back in a passable imitation of a snake's reptilian grace. Did she mean one of those high priestesses, then? With their snake-whips? Then her fingers resumed their patterns. _You will lose the opportunity to gain a weapon against mages._

Despite himself, that sparked some interest. 

_A weapon?_

She yawned, parting inviting red lips, then purred, "I tire of this. Do you wish to dance somewhere private?" _You have to see it for yourself… and, it can get you out to the Surface._

Entreri hesitated. On one hand, this was extremely suspicious, being rather too good to be true, but on the other hand, he didn't have much to lose other than his life, and if he stayed longer in this city, it was quite likely he'd lose that as well. He inclined his head. "Very well."

"Stand up and let me take a better look." Hierathe looked him slowly up and down appreciatively, lingering, oddly enough, on the corded muscles of his left arm, as he rose to his feet.

"Well?" he raised an eyebrow, not at the least self-conscious. He felt adrenaline rush into his blood, almost humming through his body – most strange. Perhaps it was something the city did to him.

"Do you want the truth, or do you want some flattery?" Hierathe grinned devilishly. 

"Lies bore me. The truth." 

"I've seen better."

**

It was a relatively short walk to Hierathe's 'sanctuary', as she called it, and they spent most of it talking. Hierathe was easy to talk to – she listened, she never disregarded his words, and she had a certain odd sense of dry humor. It was hard to look at her with the same sort of contempt he usually had whenever he saw the prostitutes in Calimport who usually either were overly sensual, or hard creatures, with hard little eyes, little dignity left, resentful, desperate, or those with the dead eyes, who had turned to the oldest profession due to having no other option. By the way Hierathe walked Entreri guessed she was at least trained in self-defense, or even fighting, and she had the easygoing manner of those not too concerned with moral compunctions.

"How do you survive here?" Entreri asked, after listening to Hierathe sketch out the city in words, explaining where he could go and where he couldn't. 

"This pays," Hierathe pointed at her brooch, "And the guild ensures you don't get ill-treated unless you want to," She winked at Entreri, "In return, we get high, relatively standard rates, while we don't rob the customers, kill them, or use anything we overhear them say against them unless threatened. D'Aerth has a powerful tool there – information – so the ruling council prefers to pretend we don't exist, allowing us to take on non-drow."

"How many of you are there?" Entreri was mildly surprised. He'd never thought this sort of profession would have a guild.

"Twenty, of date," Hierathe shrugged, "The qualification into d'Aerth is rather stringent – though of course there are lots of non-guild _Ssins d'Aerth _around. You need to be doing it of your own free will, you need to swear all sorts of oaths on pain of death, and you need to enjoy it." She smiled. "You need to believe that you aren't selling your principles or whatever it is that puritans like to claim prostitutes do, and so selling your body doesn't bother you, morally or otherwise, since it's a conscious choice of a way of living. Related diseases and all that which you may pick up in the line of work can be taken care of by the guild, and there're spells to prevent conception."

Come to think of it, he wasn't particularly sure what he actually had against voluntary prostitutes in the first place, except that they seemed to be some sort of lower class of society performing demeaning tasks… or was it? Did he actually have some moral reservation about this? That would be quite hypocritical of him, considering which line of work he had chosen, and his attitude towards it in the early years… 

"D'Aerth members have to learn self-defense, some magical skills if possible, learn certain other skills, stay fit and flexible, know how to speak intelligently and dance." Hierathe continued idly, "Usually we're solicited from the guildhouse itself, and we can choose whether or not to take the job. Personally, I don't like those that are far too kinky." She made some gestures that Entreri immediately attempted to forget. Seeing his reaction, she chuckled at him, clearly enjoying the discomfort. 

"Ah, here we are." 

A relatively large in the midst of several other buildings, some abandoned, some shops, near the transition zone where Manyfolk gives out to Eastmyr, nondescript, blocky and almost squat. No windows, and a single, almost unnoticeable door. Entreri heard several muffled clicks when Hierathe opened the door with an oddly twisted key – first by twisting it once one way, then a few times the other way, then pushing in the key. The door opened noiselessly, and Hierathe invited Entreri in.

Figuring he really didn't have anything to lose, he shrugged and complied; though he had to force himself to keep from flinching when she closed the door behind him.

The room was… impressive. 

The door led to a semicircular apex about a metre wide with dark slate tiles. From the platform a solid rock staircase descended down several metres in the form of ever widening semicircular discs, tiled similarly, in a graceful spread from the platform that contrasted with the off-white plaster of the walls. 

The ground was partly a simple network of rigid, thick dark metal grilles – the staircase led to a large platform of this, which seemed to be the living room – sofas and pillows themed in beige and brown, discreet elegance, a relatively large glass and metal table with six chairs neatly against it. In an arrangement on the glass surface of the table was a shallow pot of surface-world flowers – white daisies that flourished in the unfamiliar brightness of the room, an early-morning sunrise's soft light that seemed to be emitted from the ceiling. Expensive.

The next platform from this could be accessed by following a narrow metal grill path, and was some sort of confluence, rock, a large circle about four metres in length, a mosaic depicting a complicated compass, centre a single red design of a rose. To the east of the mosaic was a path leading to a bedroom platform, the four-poster bed covered in black satin sheets, thick maroon drapes drawn back. A single dresser, and a vase of long-stemmed sunflowers. 

To the north, a glass-walled bathroom with the usual commodities, along with a sizeable personal pool about the size of the 'compass' sunk into the platform. Entreri couldn't actually see why it was glass-walled.

To the west, a kitchen, utilitarian, a table for eating with chairs, stove for cooking, with a funnel that snaked up to the ceiling to channel out most of the smoke, a pantry, a few cabinets. White porcelain against rock and metal. 

The most stunning thing about the room was that all the platforms were elevated a foot above water that lapped against the walls and the supports of the platforms, drawing silvery white, wavy, constantly moving patterns on the ceiling on the rest of the walls and on some of the furniture. On the water floated hundreds of some breed of white lilies that gave off some sort of delicate scent that was just on the edge of being pungent, their circular leaves floating on the water. Walking the side of the living-room platform and looking down, Entreri saw small fish that immediately hid underneath the nearest lily leaf, and larger, darker shapes – then suddenly a gorgeous school of multicolored koi, their graceful tear-shaped bodies flying, flying underwater in a living, rich rainbow of gold, red, white, orange, yellow. 

Entreri watched, nearly entranced, as the school swirled in perfect coordination under his feet in an audible gurgle and whisper of water, then streamed away out of beneath the platform to squabble over some bright pellets that Hierathe threw into the water. She smiled affectionately at them, watching as one, too eager to get at the food, jumped in a splash of water and a flash of gold.

"Surface flowers?" Entreri asked her curiously.

"Yeah, they're quite popular – if expensive. I'm good friends with Faeera, the supplier, so I get some discount." She pursed her lips as she looked at the water lilies. "You're looking at the result of decades of obsession."

"It's beautiful," Entreri volunteered self-consciously. Words failed – it was sheer beauty, a living white and green carpet with occasional 'clearings' of dark water.

"Thanks," Hierathe smiled. "The fish had to be specially imported. Actually there're more plants in the water if you look properly – and a lot more sorts of small fish and some insects – the sort that don't come out of the water. They can live in here without feeding for quite a while if they need to. Light goes off for a certain period of time to simulate day and night." She made a face. "That cost me several favors to a mage. Have a seat – I have to get some materials."

Entreri sat down cautiously at one of the sofas, feet flat on the ground, watching as most of the koi school swam after Hierathe, with a few hopefuls lingering underneath his feet. The grille was disconcerting, dark as the water, such that he felt as though he were floating above it. 

Hierathe returned with a few scrolls and what looked like a small snuffbox wrought of gold, gaudy, the rich design of elves twisted in painful-looking positions occasionally interspersed with emeralds and rubies. She sat next to him without the least hint of self-consciousness, and handed him the scrolls.

The first scroll was just a large, detailed ink drawing of some sort of gauntlet for the left arm, the designs metallic, sharp-edged and strangely compelling, looking like a chaotic weave of metal tendons tightly interlaced together. Woven into the back of the palm was a single thick golden 'thread' that traced out a simple design of a dagger. The fingers of the gauntlet were sharp and claw-like.

The other scrolls were written in the dark elven language, and Entreri looked helplessly at Hierathe, hating the feeling of not being able to understand.

"That's a design of _L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin_ – roughly translated as 'The Weapon of the Warrior'. It's one third of three weapons that would make a complete whole if combined – _L'Sarol d'l'Faern_, the Weapon of the Mage, and _L'Sarol d'l'Shebali_, the Weapon of the Rogue. All three weapons take on different forms – it's just _L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin_ that looks like a gauntlet. It's not known what the other weapons look like."

"And you are giving me this weapon?" Entreri asked disbelievingly. "What is the catch?"

"The catch is that you won't be able to use your left arm anymore once you wear it. All three weapons have their own fragmented sentience, and the Warrior weapon sort of takes control of just your left arm up to the elbow, though it'd usually not move unless you ask it to or you're threatened. At that point, it'd do what's necessary to protect or serve you."

"What will it do?" Entreri grimaced. The loss of one arm was a very big catch indeed… that was his dagger arm.

"Apparently the Warrior weapon extends several thin metal hair-thin threads that can be as long or as short as it wants. The threads slice through whatever they sweep through." Hierathe grinned. "Also, it gives you an immunity to harmful magic. That includes arcane magic, psionic magic, divine magic… everything."

Entreri nodded curtly. "And how will this thing get me to the Surface?"

"It can provide you with ample protection while you follow one of the merchant trails," Hierathe shrugged. "My Mistress is willing to place you on one of the caravans which emerge in Skullport, where you can find your way up to Waterdeep. _L'Sarol_ will work just as well on the Surface."

"And why would she do that?" Entreri glanced back down at the compelling drawing. "If I understood you correctly, your 'Mistress' is a High Priestess. I am not sure I understand why she's even offering it to me in the first place."

"She's not giving it to you for free," Hierathe informed him. "You will have to give in exchange your jeweled dagger – and you have to take part in a Game. Simply put, you're expendable as a human, and said Game is dangerous."

"My dagger?" Entreri blinked, and had to stop his hand from seeking out his weapon hilt in reassurance. 

"It has certain magical properties which interest my Mistress." Hierathe said evasively. "And you need it not once you get the Warrior weapon – if need be, the weapon will heal you." 

True, but the dagger had some sentimental value. Entreri had taken it from another assassin – one of his first kills as a fully trained assassin in Calimport. He'd seen the dagger in action when very much younger – when he had been one of the hard-eyed urchins that ran in small gangs in the narrow streets of the city. It had been the first assassination he'd ever seen, a backstab in the midst of a rather busy street.

He hadn't known what was more frightening – the way the man died, screaming, wailing out some indefinable loss as his life was sucked away by the vampiric blade, or the way all the passers-by walked pass, purposefully unseeing, totally uncaring that one of their fellow men was dying, their eyes and faces carefully blank.

"And what is this Game?" Entreri asked, pushing away the memories.

"Elementary – find and kill the other players who hold the other weapons." 

"And who are these players?"

"You'd have to find out for yourself," Hierathe told him, "But you've interacted socially with both Player _Shebali_ and Player _Faern_ before. It's quite possible you've seen the other two parts, though you may not have known what they were truly for at that time. All three parts have different properties."

"That is _very_ helpful," Entreri said dryly. "I believe it extends my choices of suspects to infinity."

Hierathe sniggered at this. "Well, it might help if you know that all the parts of _L'Sarol _are from the Underdark, and all Players are currently in the Underdark. All the Players also have a guide. I'm yours."

Entreri vaguely wished that was true in all senses of the word, but shrugged. "And I can trust you?"

"My Mistress has expressed her wish that I help you in any way you wish until she terminates the order." Hierathe winked suggestively, but then immediately turned businesslike again. "But yes, I'd be giving you some hints along the way. Firstly, other things you should know – each part of _L'Sarol_ can sense another part, and is also concealed from that part. The Warrior weapon can sense the Rogue weapon, but is concealed from it. The Rogue weapon can sense the Mage weapon, but is concealed from it. The Mage weapon can sense the Warrior weapon, but is concealed from it."

"When you put on the Warrior weapon, it will immediately begin to draw you to the Rogue, but the pull is extremely weak over distances of more than a few miles. However, if you can Name the wielder of the Rogue, this will activate something that will immediately teleport you to the wielder. You get only one chance at this, though, but there's no time limit to finding the Rogue. The Mage, however, may find you first."

"What happens if I guess wrongly?"

"It's not known, but I believe _L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin_ will destroy you."  
Entreri grimaced. "Ah. What if I refuse your offer?"

"You go back out into the city, and you'd never get to undo your decision," Hierathe said, leaning back on the sofa. "So, what's it going to be?"

"I think you're not telling me everything," Entreri said coolly. "I do not believe a High Priestess would give something this powerful to a human."

"Partly because my Mistress finds it amusing to watch this Game, and partly because on its own and uncombined with any other part, the Warrior weapon is the only one that consciously chooses a single wielder. It has been inert in the centuries that my Mistress possessed it. However, it twitched its fingers once – on the precise moment of your birth – and another time, when you first entered Menzoberranzan. It may or may not be coincidence."

"If you agree to the terms, I will take you to her and to the weapon now, and we'd see if you really are the wielder. If you're not, it would not allow you to wield it."

Entreri looked down at his boots. Losing control of his left arm and his blade was a disadvantage, and the fact that the thing was sentient was another. He much preferred weapons that wouldn't have the chance to disagree with him – if it was sentient enough to do that. There was also the problem about the Weapon destroying him if he guessed wrongly. Rogues are thieves and bards, aren't they? But all the thieves and bards he had met were on the Surface, as were the mages, unless one counted Bregan D'aerthe…

Well, if it was that easy… but Entreri was quite sure it was not. Perhaps some of his Surface world acquaintances had entered the Underdark, but that didn't help either – the Underdark was an immense place.

However, the Weapon's power was certainly extremely tempting, especially the immunity. It would definitely be helpful in getting to the Surface, especially if Hierathe's Mistress kept her word about the merchants going to Waterdeep, and he would not need to depend on Jarlaxle for it.

But his dagger?

What attachment did he have to the dagger anyway? Sentiment? Entreri had been proud of the fact that he had felt no sentiment towards anything, but it appeared that this wasn't particularly true at all, judging from the reluctance he felt from having to give up the weapon. It was like one of his badges of trade in Calimport, a solid euphemism. 

And what if all this was some sort of set-up? A treacherous trick? 

What did he have left to lose, other than his life? And considering the general life expectancy of humans too deeply involved with the drow in Menzoberranzan… 

Entreri tilted his head to look up at Hierathe. "Very well, I agree."

--

References:

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Malla Yathallar: (most) honored High Priestess

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Rivvil: Human

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Faerbol: Magical item

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L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin: The Weapon of the Warrior

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Colnbluth: This term appears in Starless Night, written by Salvatore, but does not appear in the dark elven dictionary. So do not kill me if it is inauthentic.

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Glowing wine: I can't remember the exact name, so I'd just make it up. Yes, it glows, and it is green – and made of mushrooms. I have no idea _why_, and not to mention, speaking as someone who hates eating mushrooms – yuck, yuck and _yuck_.

__

Xuat vith xuil ussa xor usstan orn vith xuil dos: Don't fuck with me or I'll fuck with you.

Faeera's Floating Plants: This is an actual shop in Menzoberranzan that sells surfacer flowers.


	2. L'Yathallar

Author's Note: Reread some of The Darkness trade paperbacks (The Darkness and Witchblade are both Top Cow comics) and got mildly annoyed (yeah, I'm weird that way) at all the occasional pictures of created courtesans languishing at the feet of their master – the wielder of The Darkness (no, that doesn't happen in the book… yet.  Jackie hasn't mastered creation).  A character in this Part is my answer to that (and yes, I'm evil).  Ah yes, I think it's quite obvious who the Rogue is by now.  I am so pathetic at suspense.

Part 2

L'Yathallar

            "_Vith," Entreri swore, taking a certain strange pleasure in using one of the drow swear words with his 'terrible accent'.  Circumstances currently called for it anyway – Hierathe had pressed something on the 'snuffbox' and they'd been immediately teleported into a pitch-dark chamber.  An enclosed space – the word reverberated hollowly for a moment, then faded into silence.  It took a second for the infravision ring to kick in, and Entreri immediately got a headache._

            He hated seeing things in the gaudy, amorphous heat colours, especially abruptly after having used normal vision.  As far as he could tell, Hierathe was standing next to him, and there were mixtures of greys and blues around them.  Nothing else that he could tell, couldn't see the furniture, couldn't see any bloody thing – though he knew from painful experience that in Menzoberranzan, that usually didn't mean anything, since most dark elves liked buying magical items which hid them from the infrared spectrum.  Come to think of it, what he hated more than infravision was magic-induced infravision.  Without the natural training from birth of those who were born with infravision, it was like trying to see one's way around a manifestation of an abstract painting.

            "Don't swear in a _yathallar's presence," Hierathe murmured.  Entreri couldn't tell if she was warning him, or making a joke.  Since the latter seemed unlikely, at least to him, he closed his mouth  tightly._

            "I do not offend easily," a feminine voice said in accented Common, somewhere behind him.  Entreri spun around sharply, focusing on the source of the sound, but all he saw were greys and blues, and the quickly fading residual heat his passage left in the air.  It was extremely unnerving, and he grasped the hilts of his weapons warily.

            "_Malla Yathallar? It seems that the __rivvil needs a bit more light before he starts hyperventilating," Hierathe observed with good cheer.  _

Entreri began to realise that nothing about his present situation surprised him any longer.  Pretty-faced half-drow could pop up and offer him weapons of power in drinking pits and show him a weird home, everyone could speak Common, High Priestesses could talk out of nowhere, half-breeds could address High Priestesses without permission, and bloody magic infravision gave him a bloody headache.  

No, wait – the last wasn't surprising even under _normal circumstances._

            The High Priestess chuckled indulgently, then a yellow-orange ball of light flared up next to Entreri's ear, and the assassin found out he could, actually, still be surprised.  With a startled gasp he instinctively flinched away, nearly bumping into an amused Hierathe, trying to blink away the spots that exploded over his vision and adjust back to normal vision.

            He was near the approximate centre of an irregularly shaped room with an off-centre domed ceiling, from which hung some sort of metal-and-leather winged craft, the leathery wings drooping to cast ominous shadows against the light stone walls.  The ground was a mass of chaotic-looking runes and symbols traced in silver on black marble that was chipped badly in places, as if something sharp had been rammed against it repeatedly at some point in time.  There were some maps of the Underdark and the Surface World that had been nailed to the otherwise undecorated walls, their edges frayed, some yellowed with age, some relatively new, some misaligned such that parts of the parchment bulged out, red circles occasionally inked onto some of the maps. 

            Strange tubes and cables seemed to snake out of several organic-looking machines placed in some unknown pattern in the room of which purpose Entreri could not discern and was not sure if he wanted to – the machines looked as though they could be alive.  The cables were of different colours and thickness – some as thick as his finger, some as his arm.  Some anchored themselves like leeches into the underside of what looked like a beautifully carved metal table on a round dais, the surface set with stained glass depicting harsh patterns in sharply clashing colours.

              Beside the table, one elegant hand resting on it, was a dark elven priestess of surprisingly small build, about a head shorter than he was.  Her face had the cold, mask-like beauty of most drow females, though her lips seemed slightly too full and her pale grey eyes were oddly large, giving her an incongruous appearance of innocence that certainly didn't fit with the obligatory body-hugging, low-cut, high-slit, purple-red robes of a priestess of Lloth.  Other than that, she wore comfortable-looking soft dark leather boots, a piwafwi caught at both shoulders with matching silver spider clasps, and a plain silver circlet over her brow that pushed back the silvery, waist-long hair.  Hung at the hip with a gold-chain belt was a snake whip, which was steadily silent, all three cobras staring at Entreri with flat, cold reptilian eyes.

            Behind her, suspended a few feet above the ground by cables and delicate jointed metal supports was one of the strangest sights Entreri had ever seen.  It was the nude body of an extremely handsome male dark elf, handsome nearly to the point of being pretty, supple muscles developed but not to the point of being muscle-bound, velvety under the black skin, a perfect statue in his stillness – the elf did not seem to breathe.  

From the shoulders sprang two white wings with deep chocolate bars across the primary flight feathers and the tips of the others, spread out in stark contrast against the elf's skin by more supports placed in such a way as not to damage any of the delicate feathers.  The shape of the wings seemed to be a cross between that of a swan's wing structure and the wing structure of some fast-flying bird of prey, beauty with the promise of grace.

            The elf had long hair that reached his rib cage, carefully combed, flaxen in hue with a weird bluish tint.  His eyes were amber, wolf-like, though they stared out into space blankly.  No one in.

            Entreri realised with a start that the creature seemed to combine a peculiarly exquisite mix of several elven races.  The black skin wasn't totally black, but was an odd blend of black and bronze.  A dark elf with a gold elf, avariel in the wings, lythari in the eyes, moon and sea in the hair… and probably a few more traces that he couldn't identify.  Around his neck, on a white gold chain, hung a pendant of the same metal, a beautifully made dream-catcher, the intricate pattern on the thumb-sized circle picked out, and the hair-thin metal strands beneath it with the small white gold feathers.

            "Is it alive?" Entreri asked in an awed voice before he could stop himself.

            "Not yet," the High Priestess said, tapping her fingers idly on the stained glass table.  "His name is Artifice.  You look on centuries of concentrated effort."

            "You can _give life?" Entreri found this remarkably disturbing.  Perhaps because it was the antithesis of his own 'profession', but the thought of an individual having the power to cause something to live – to feel, think, learn… seemed somehow wrong._

            He realised the Priestess was talking.

            "Artifice is a Crafting – something unique to my House – House Qaer'rys.  Within certain limits, yes, we can give life, and we can give sentience to our creations.  With Artifice, I intend to go as far as I can – though his intelligence would probably be slightly retarded, it would hopefully be higher than my two previous Craftings." She spoke with the weary scientific detachment of someone who had repeated the lines several times before to different people.  "But we are not here to discuss Artifice, but _L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin, yes?"_

            Entreri nodded.  He forced his eyes to hold the Priestess' eyes instead of wandering off to stare at the creature and its disconcertingly blank eyes.  "I believe your lackey is not telling me everything."  

Hierathe chuckled.

            "'Everything'?" the Priestess echoed mockingly.  "To tell you everything would take a lifetime, _rivvil.  Ask her questions, if you will – but later.  Now I wish to know if you are accepting the weapon."_

            Entreri only hesitated for a moment.  "I am, unless…"

            "Place your jewelled dagger here," the Priestess interrupted impatiently, and tapped the stained glass table with one long-nailed finger.  

            "I'd like to see the 'weapon' first," Entreri said coldly, knowing he was pushing his luck, but the Priestess just glanced at Hierathe, who shrugged as if to say that she couldn't do anything about that demand.

            "_Vel'bol doerus d'khaless?" the Priestess asked whimsically as she walked towards a veiled glass jar to the right of the suspended elf.  _

            "_Xun naut l'Ilythiiri… kal, 'Khaless nau… uss mzild… taga dosstan'?" Entreri managed, stumbling over the words._

            "Passable, but your accent is atrocious," the Priestess said, carefully levitating the jar in front of her as she returned, placing it on the table.  With a dramatic flourish, she pulled away the crimson veil, to reveal the gauntlet that Entreri had seen in the drawing.  Immediately, the fingers of the thing twitched, and the Priestess smiled in satisfaction.  "It appears that you _are the wielder after all, Artemis Entreri.  Place your dagger next to the jar, and put on __L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin."_

            Entreri barely heard her.  He was suddenly bombarded with alien images of winding, dark tunnels and sudden bursts of crimson, bloody flowers, the gleam of swords and weapons, the whistles and thumps of crossbows and their bolts, the hiss of arrows, the harsh ringing of metal against metal… Numbly, he stepped forward, as if walking in a dream, removing his dagger and placing it on the table, then placing his hand on the glass dome of the jar.

            There was an immediate reaction – the glass jar shattered violently outwards, away from his hand, fragments tinkling onto the ground and bouncing off some sort of force field that had been placed around the Priestess and the creature behind her.  Dimly he heard Hierathe suck in a sharp intake of breath and leap behind him somewhere.  

Entreri picked up the gauntlet, strangely warm under his touch, and put it onto his left hand, sheathing it to the elbow, a frighteningly perfect fit, a second skin.  There was a rather unpleasant sensation of things probing through his flesh and into the bone, though no pain, and he did not know why he could not seem to react, and only just stared at it blankly.  It hummed in pleasure, and then he felt a very faint tug on his arm, too faint to discern where the thing wanted him to go, though.

            With rising panic, he realised his left arm and fingers didn't respond to him anymore – though if he wanted to move his fingers, they eventually did – moved by the Weapon with a split-second delay.  He grasped the gauntlet with his right arm, blindly intending to pull it off, but only pulled his left arm forward, as if the gauntlet had melded itself into him.  Metal strands curled themselves up past his elbow to trace alien designs on his skin, and even as he flinched at the disconcerting sight, his opinions were suddenly washed away by a wave of _rightness, as if it had always been meant to be this way.  For a man who did not believe in destiny, this was highly disturbing._

            The hum gradually began to intensify in volume and complexity, until it seemed to drive out all thought, all sensation… until he lost consciousness.

            Hierathe watched dispassionately as Entreri crumpled to the ground in an unfortunate manner – the poor man was going to have a headache when he woke up - and then turned to the Priestess, waiting for instructions.

            Her Mistress – Rys'Zaer, second daughter of House Qaer'rys, intelligent, whimsical, powerful, currently ignored them, turning the jewelled dagger over with delicate fingers, as if fascinated by its design, carefully tracing the sharp blade with a painted nail.  She abruptly straightened up, as if realising they were both still in the vicinity, and nodded at Hierathe.  "Take the _rivvil away, and brief him when he wakes."_

            Hierathe nodded.  She only felt a vague interest in what Rys'Zaer wanted to do with the dagger, and decided it was none of her business.  Placing a boot gently against Entreri's leather armour, she used the teleport box.

**

            Rys'Zaer waited until Hierathe had gone, then summoned and sent a communication disc to her eldest sister Rys'Itae and the third sister Rys'Jaes, informing them that the Game proper had started with the initiation of the last Player.  After receiving confirmations from them and the obligatory wishes of good luck, she continued on what she had intended to do, something more important to her even than the Game which had started a century ago, her heart beating faster until it seemed to be attempting to jump out from her chest.  This could be the culmination of all her efforts on this Crafting, and Rys'Zaer was sure the anticipation was making her light-headed and dizzy.  She stood for a moment, closing her eyes to take deep, meditative breaths.

            If she was correct on the dagger – if decades of research had been correct – it siphoned off pure life force to the wielder, no attached memories, instincts, points of view.  If the wielder was alive, it gave healing.  But if the wielder was not alive… now _that was the gamble. _

            She put her left hand palm-down on the stained-glass table, and the various cables and support moved their disturbing puppet, lowering him to the ground near her, arms stiffly stretched in supplication.  Rys'Zaer handed the dagger over hilt-first, and nodded absently as Artifice held it with mechanical care using both hands.

            Rys'Zaer walked over to the only door, and told the guards to get the prepared slave.  This promised to be highly entertaining, if nothing else.

**

            Entreri woke up on Hierathe's couch in the living-room platform with a bad headache and nausea.  His stomach rumbled, attempting to focus his attention on getting food, and then rumbled again when his nose detected something deliciously fragrant somewhere close.  Yawning, he attempted to rub his eyes – and nearly poked his left eye out with the Warrior weapon.  It hummed, as if in happy greeting, and Entreri absently stroked it as he would a pet – it just seemed like the most natural thing to do.  Since he'd sacrificed quite a bit to get the Weapon, it made no sense to resent its presence now, and Entreri was usually a practical person, except on the matter of Drizzt, but he had some reason for that.  And as for finding the Rogue… 

            The weapon twitched and the volume of the hum went up a notch, and Entreri frowned at it.  "I will start looking for the Rogue _after I eat.  Now stop making noise."_

            It subsided, though the dagger-design on the back of the palm pulsed a sullen red for a moment before returning to gold.  Entreri shrugged, and walked as steadily as he could towards the table in the living-room platform, where he could see a pie of sorts, plates, and cutlery.  Food...

            "Awake at last?" Hierathe walked towards him from the kitchen platform, holding two goblets and a bottle of wine, followed below by koi.  "Have a seat."

            The pie was of some sort of mushroom and rothe meat, and hunger heightened his appreciation of it such that he answered Hierathe's questions towards his well-being in monosyllables.  Manipulating the cutlery was awkward, but he managed.  Finally Hierathe gave up and concentrated on eating.

            When he'd finished on the pie, and his headache cleared, he decided to ask his own questions.  "Is this 'Rogue' a thief, or a bard, or an assassin?"

            Hierathe shrugged, pouring him some wine.  He was glad to see it wasn't the sort that glowed green – dark elves had peculiar tastes sometimes regarding the finer foods.  "May be any, may be none of those.  But you've met the Rogue before."

            "Great," Entreri muttered.  "And the tug is too faint for me to actually know who this Rogue is."

            "Faint as in how faint? Can you tell whether it's trying to pull you in a distinct direction?"

            Entreri shook his head.  "Not even when I move."

            Hierathe pursed her lips.  "Then the Rogue is probably out of the city, somewhere in the Underdark."

            Entreri sighed.  "I had rather hoped it was Jarlaxle, or someone in Bregan D'aerthe."  The weapon kept silent, with no change in the intensity of the tug at the mention of any of the names.  Pity.  He'd quite wanted to kill one of those.

            "I have a suggestion – the weapon may react to places where the Rogue has been and lingered… so we can go walk around the city.   Can't get you into Tier Breche, though that's the best place to look if the Rogue is a dark elf."

            Entreri felt relieved, actually.  He had no intention of going into Tier Breche.  "So we just walk around the city?"

            "Detective work," Hierathe grinned.  "We can start with Manyfolk – if the Rogue isn't a dark elf, that's probably where he or she would be."

            "The city is _very big… and there are some sections where I cannot venture into, remember?"_

            "Which is why you're going to need some disguise that won't trip magical alarms.  We'd dye the skin of your arms and face black and your hair white, then I'd give you a piwafwi and armour that would hopefully make you resemble a dark elf enough for you to pass as one.  The ears will be a bit of a problem, but I think I have wigs somewhere that can be put over your hair and your ears.  Then you won't need to dye your hair either."

            "Piwafwi and armour?" Entreri raised an eyebrow.  "Why would you have those?"

            Hierathe smirked.  "Sometimes my clients like to play dressing-up." She chuckled when Entreri wrinkled his nose at her answer.  "Or would you rather dress as a commoner? A patrol soldier? Or the Archmage? Or would you like the robes of a Priestess?"

            "Ah… the piwafwi and armour would suit nicely." Entreri said hastily.

**

            The body of the slave was removed, and Rys'Zaer ordered the guards out of the chamber.  Clinically, she took the dagger carefully from Artifice's grasp, and placed it on the table before allowing herself to contemplate her Crafting.

            The awakening of sentience always took time, but she could tell in this one it was already accelerating in process – its heart had already begun to beat, and it had just started to breathe.  She could not tell if this was a welcome or a disastrous outcome to using the dagger to insert pure life force into a Crafting instead of the normal lengthy and somewhat unstable rituals.

            The wings quivered, the feathers flaring slightly in their restraints.  Rys'Zaer put her palm on the table, and the cables and supports carefully lowered Artifice such that he kneeled on the ground, wings folded behind him.  Rys'Zaer watched as his eyelids fluttered close, and his mouth parted gently for a moment before closing as well, his head tilting back suddenly in a jerk then drooping forward bonelessly, and his fingers twitching into claws before relaxing.  She liked watching this part of a Crafting, the slow crawl towards life and awareness that never failed to be something unique and awe-inspiring.  Pure power in the creation of life – where for a moment one shared more fully in the understanding of the Divine.

            Rys'Zaer sat down in a pool of robes in front of Artifice, preparing restraining spells in case his last awakening was violent and he injured himself.  It was useful being born to House Qaer'rys – one was well versed in both divine magic and dark arcane magic, and Rys'Zaer could not imagine a life without Crafting, like all her sisters.  No blood brothers in Qaer'rys – something that the Matron Qaer'rys was proud of, believing it a sign of favour from the Spider Queen, that the Qaer'rys line was untainted by male descent.  The weapon master and the patron were both adopted.

            Artifice tilted his head, as if listening to something, but Rys'Zaer knew that his senses were probably still being awakened – first hearing, then taste, then smell, touch, and sight last of all.  That reminded her of the Crafting of his brain – the part that had taken her the better part of a century, all the intricate details.  She rather hoped that she had done it correctly – there was never surety in such things – and that all the 'programming' had worked.  That had to be done with slavish use of divine-arcane magic that had landed her in bed for a week.  Speech was also difficult.

            The snakes at her belt rubbed themselves against her reassuringly, as if sensing their mistress' anxious mood.  She smiled quickly at them and stroked one, causing the others to bump at her hands with their blunt snouts for equal attention.  Now the snake-whips were divine Craftings, gifts from Lloth to High Priestesses, rather miraculous – the living melded into the non-living, scales into an adamantite handle.  Lloth the Queen was glorious and all-powerful.  As she observed her Crafting, she caressed the snakes – something both comforting and therapeutic.  All that would happen now would be Lloth's will, she decided, and gave herself up to it, repeating formulas of praise in her mind and pleas for blessings.

            "_Jabbress…" Artifice murmured, his eyes squeezing more tightly shut.  _

            That was surprising – speech and language usually were marks that the last awakening was at hand, but if that was so, Artifice's awakening was even faster than her estimation.  Perhaps pure life force had its merits after all.

            Abruptly his chin jerked up, and his eyes snapped open with a choked sound, as if waking from a nightmare, twisting in his restraints.  Rys'Zaer spoke a word of command, and the supports and cables withdrew, causing Artifice to fall to the side.  Instinctively, he prevented himself from falling with his arm and a graceful flare of the wings – a good sign that his stimulation-to-environment reactions were normal, Lloth be praised.

            Rys'Zaer found her Crafting was unabashedly staring at her, registering her presence, and there was, to her satisfaction, some intelligence in the eyes – they focused, and they seemed to understand – no sharp intellect by any means, but that suited her.  True intellect often turned out with strange side effects, as one of her sisters' Craftings had proved.  

When Artifice realised that she noticed his staring, he quickly dropped his eyes to the floor, trembling, closing his wings against his back as if trying to shield himself from possible disapproval.

            "Artifice." Rys'Zaer commanded, and he looked up sharply to her, though he did not meet her eyes, concentrating instead on some point on her neck.  At least he knew his name – and his position, so some of the programming had worked.  "Come here."

            Artifice seemed both unwilling and eager to move closer to her, but he did so, eventually kneeling at arm's reach from her.  She stood up and walked slowly around him – all movements seemed to be normal, at least.  "Stand up and walk to me," she told him, striding some distance away.  Artifice obeyed, his movements fluid without the childish, awkward stumble of most Craftings when they first moved, though his first step was a bit unstable, he seemed to gain confidence until he stood before her, eyes studying the ground, a head taller.

            "Hmmm.  We'd have to test if you can use these later," Rys'Zaer walked around him and stroked the base of his right wing, smiling when he shivered in pleasure and moaned when she lightly scratched him.  _That had worked as well.  Idly, she massaged his shoulder muscles, his wings drooping languidly as he hesitatingly gave himself over to the pleasurable sensations.  "Do you know who I am, Artifice?"_

            "My… my Mistress." Artifice paused when Rys'Zaer stopped touching him.  "Mistress?"

            A sharp blow from behind and he fell off balance, wings extending inexpertly, falling onto his rump.  Wide, frightened eyes looked up to see Rys'Zaer holding an evil-looking black riding crop in her right hand, eyes flashing.  The snakes at her hip hissed in menace.  

            "Your first lesson, Artifice – _you belong to __me.  It does not bind both ways." One foot on either side of his body, she bent down and forced up his chin with the riding crop.  "Do you understand?"_

            "Y-yes…"

            "Yes?"

            "Yes, Mistress."

            She smiled, allowing his head to drop back to rest, all velvet again, kneeling down such that the silk of her robes glided over his muscles as she sat carefully on his stomach.  Artifice bit his lip when he realised she wasn't wearing anything underneath the robes – by the confusion on his face, he didn't particularly understand his body's instant reaction to the spot of slick warmth.  "Good.  And what are you here for?"

            "To serve you, Mistress."

            That was the amusing thing about Craftings, Rys'Zaer decided.  The power trip one felt from the creations.  It was probably unhealthy, and it certainly made Crafting an addiction, but it was highly satisfactory.  It was akin to the pleasure priestesses felt when they had their snake whips, but somewhat different – perhaps it was the knowledge that Craftings were more intricately attached to the Crafter than the whips were to priestesses – after all, though the whips may turn on priestesses if Lloth was annoyed, the Craftings would not.  

            She rather looked forward to showing off this one to her sisters, but discussions on technique may have to wait, since she regretfully remembered that she had to give some attention to the Game.  Rys'Itae had made a good choice with her player, and as to Rys'Jaes, her choice had been surprising, giving its controversy, but also competent…

            Still, it probably would not hurt to pleasure herself for a few hours.  Rys'Zaer smirked as Artifice's breath hitched when she rubbed against him.  Time for another test.

**

            "Strange," Hierathe commented, as they looked upon the mass of twisted rock and metal that had once been the ruin of a House.  _L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin had started humming here, which meant the Rogue had been here before, or the Rogue weapon. _

            The rest of Manyfolk had not helped, unless one counted food and all the nibbles they'd bought from the nearby Bazaar to eat on the move.  So far they'd successfully avoided trouble, though it had been a near thing in one part of the Bazaar when Entreri had walked too close to one of the patrols.  

            "What is this place? Entreri asked, unwilling to approach.  At points, the rubble was scorched, and he could see the occasional broken weapon and some dark shape underneath a heavy block that looked like an old corpse.  Bones.  

            "You look at the ruin of House Teken'duis," Hierathe's voice dropped at the last two words into a barely audible whisper from the murmur they used whenever communicating – it would seem strange for dark elves to be speaking in Surface Common, if they were overheard.  "Destroyed by the Academy for having failed a raid on another House.  Most of the city attended the destruction, so this is hardly helpful.  Just means the Rogue was here – or the weapon – sixty or so years ago.  Or at any time, perhaps, considering this is hardly a restricted area."

            "Probably drow, then." Entreri said hopefully.  Besides, he didn't know any humans who'd been to Menzoberranzan lately.  Now that left… about twenty thousand suspects.  Right.

            A thought struck him.  "This is _really a game, yes?"_

            "I did tell you it was," Hierathe seemed particularly anxious to get away from the ruins, and since Entreri didn't see what further help it could be, he allowed her to lead him away.

            "No… I meant it in the sense that what you mean by Players…" Entreri paused, collecting his thoughts.  "I doubt your Mistress is the only one watching the game, is she?"

            "No, she just aids one Player.  There are two other Game Masters for the other two Players." Hierathe grinned in feigned surprise.  "Hey, you're quite intelligent."

            Entreri bowed mockingly.  

            "So where to now, great leader?"

            Entreri shrugged.  "Since there was a reaction to this ruin, I believe we should look at the others.  Perhaps there would be some sort of pattern."

            "Okay, maybe you're not that intelligent."

            "What?"

            "If you mean the publicly destroyed ruins – well, that'd only place the age of your Rogue.  If you mean the covertly destroyed ones… that would be quite a headache.  Not to mention I don't see how they'd help, since the Rogue could have passed by those ruins anytime, and may not have belonged to either the destroyed House or the raiding House.  And I don't understand the indicative measures taken by your weapon."

            "Well, unless you have any suggestions… "

            "I don't suggest, great leader," Hierathe winked.  "I will criticise.  It's far more entertaining – and annoying."

            "Fine.  We look at ruins," Entreri said decisively, again wondering why he found it so easy to enjoy her company even though most of what she did was to try and irritate him.  Maybe it was some sort of training on her part.  "What's the next ruin of?"

            "Closest to here? Hmmm, let me think… ah yes.  I think it's the late House Do'Urden."

--

Notes and Translations:

_Vel'bol doerus d'khaless: What came of trust_

_Xun naut l'Ilythiiri kal, 'Khaless nau uss mzild taga dosstan': Do not the Drow teach, 'Trust no one more than yourself'_

_Jabbress: Mistress_


	3. L'Shebali

Author's Note: Gah, a sign that I am terminally bored with real life is when I retreat into my virtual one and write far, far too fast for my own (or the story's) good.  The plot is due to get even more violent in this part –since I'm currently in a PMS-induced bad mood.  Also, at this point of time the story continues to diverge from Salvatore's books.  Don't scream at me – I just really didn't want to add all the bother of writing Catti-Brie, so Drizzt did not leave something behind as he did in Starless Night.

Part 3

L'Shebali 

            "Do'Urden?" Entreri gasped.  "As in _Drizzt Do'Urden?"_

            "I see you've heard of…" Hierathe paused when the weapon on Entreri's left arm, hidden in the piwafwi, began to hum a discordant, angry tune.  Entreri drew out his arm, and watched the gold spiral pulse into crimson.

            "What's happening?"

            Hierathe pursed her lips.  "Either _L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin hates Drizzt for a reason, or Drizzt is the Rogue.  Which would make __some kind of twisted sense, admittedly, though I have no idea why it'd react in such a way, when you haven't even named anyone.  Perhaps __L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin compensates for ah… vaunted intelligence." _

            "So, do I Name Drizzt as the Rogue?" Entreri did not notice the veiled jibe at a stereotypical warrior's technical level of intellect, but Hierathe let it slide.

            "Well, I think you should attempt to make sure first.  Any other suspects?"

            "A few, all Bregan D'aerthe."  Entreri cast his gaze up into the darkness of the Menzoberranzan cavern, wishing for the millionth time that he was looking up into the endless sky.  Either Calimport's blazing sun or the frigid desert night, it didn't matter – he was homesick, and angry at himself for being homesick, and on top of that, angry at himself for losing control enough to be angry.  "My other acquaintances are on the Surface World, and are unlikely to leave it."

            "So… are you going to make a decision, or are we going to stand here? There's nothing interesting on the ceiling, Entreri.  Except a few bats.  And the occasional lizard.  But if you find _those interesting… "_

            The assassin listened to Hierathe insult him effortlessly for a few minutes without breaking rhythm, almost as though she were reciting some grotesque poetry, and kept quiet.  Oppressive silence was usually a good way of making others shut up, but it did not seem to work on Hierathe – the only thing that did make her stop was when they finally reached House Do'Urden, and the weapon reacted even more violently.

            Metal threads shot out from the wrist of the gauntlet towards the metal ruins, cutting neatly through whatever they encountered.  They twisted and writhed, occasionally pausing and turning the tips in the air, as if desperately searching for something.  The weapon's hum turned into a disappointed snarl, then the threads withdrew back to the gauntlet.  The gold hue again gave to red, in the spiral – a dark blackish red that resembled drying blood.

            Hierathe watched, somewhat impressed – her eyes were wider, and her tone was not unlike that of a pupil beseeching guidance.  "What now?"

            Entreri considered his options.  "I am going to speak with my other… suspects.  Since you would not be allowed into Bregan D'aerthe, either I take my leave of you now, or when I finish I meet with you in Qaynstone." 

            "You'd better remember to meet me," Hierathe put her hands on her shapely hips and looked so much like an indignant, resigned mother facing down a recalcitrant son that Entreri had to stifle an urge to laugh.  "The Gods know what _other kinds of trouble you can get into with that thing on your arm.  Don't… ah what the hell; you'd probably get into trouble anyway.  See you in two… no, make that three Narbondel hues."_

            "And if I'm late?" Entreri raised an eyebrow.

            "Off to bed without your supper," Hierathe winked as Entreri flashed a quick smile at her quip.  "Seriously though – I'd report you to the Mistress just for the amusement value.  The fireworks should be quite fun to watch from there – especially if you happened to be dead and someone else attempts to put on the weapon.  Try not to do that – die, I mean - you _have been rather amusing."_

            "Pleased to be of entertainment," Entreri said sardonically.  Both of them exchanged mockingly courtly bows, then headed off on their own ways, oddly unsatisfied with their meeting, but out of pride, unwilling to go back and follow the other.  Besides, unknown to the other, each had their own hidden agenda.

**

            "_Malla Yathallar?"_

            Rys'Zaer sighed and stretched on her bed, coverlets and blankets bunching underneath her – she hated it when her rest was interrupted, and had to force her voice to stay calm and not make her sound irritable.  Sometimes it was annoying having to keep up a certain image with different people.  "What is the matter, Hierathe?"

            Movement at the foot of the bed, the slight change of the patterns of body heat on Artifice betraying the fact that the Crafting had just been awoken by her voice.  She caught the sight of two almonds of red – his eyes - before he quickly averted his gaze, his manner confused, bewildered, nervous and tense.  Rys'Zaer permitted herself a congratulatory smile at her Crafting's apparent perfection before turning her attention back to the communications device on the bedside table.  Cool, hard scales rubbed over her stomach, and a blunt snout nudged her hand – the whip was also awake, though by the tone of the hisses, rather petulant about it.  She could identify with that.

            "A while more," she murmured to it.  One of the heads rose from the bed, hood flaring up as it swayed half-heartedly from side to side, tongue flickering out to taste the air, then sank down again in pointed weariness.  Rys'Zaer winked at it – sometimes she suspected the whip had some kind of sentience – a subtle one, but one that existed all the same.

            "Entreri – the _rivvil – is close to finding the Rogue, __malla Yathallar.  __L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin reacted in a destructive manner at the Do'Urden and Teken'duis ruins – and it also displays some response whenever he speaks the Rogue's name."_

            "So you know who the Rogue is, Hierathe?"

            "I believe I do, _malla Yathallar." Hierathe sounded confident._

            "Good.  The Game is in flux – the dice and the bowl have revealed a sub-character who may or may not be a Revealer.  Do what you must, and do not disappoint me."

            "I understand, _malla Yathallar." The communications device lost the underlying buzz it had whenever it was being used, and Rys'Zaer knew that the links had been severed.  Yawning luxuriously, she stretched again, more slowly.  Perhaps it was time to get up and speak with her sisters… or perhaps not._

            "Artifice."

            "Yes, Mistress?"

            Rys'Zaer idly twisted her fingers into symbols, and a soft light sprang up between them.  Infravision was all very well, but for details, true vision was better.  She smiled, albeit somewhat cruelly, when Artifice flinched and recoiled from the unexpected illumination, shielding his eyes quickly and curving his wings open into two graceful arcs.  Using the distraction to move, she closed the distance between them and raked her nails down his chest eliciting a moan of mingled pain and pleasure, clinically inspecting the new wounds - pretty beads of red that welled up from the furrows – and the slightly older wounds that had scabbed over quickly due to the modifications she had made three decades ago to Artifice's healing system.  No matter, she would heal them fully in time, though she was as yet undecided on whether or not to leave the scars.  

            It was almost as though she was placing finishing touches on a manifestation of artistic expression.  Or perhaps it was simply pure cruelty… 

            On the bed behind her, the whip watched its mistress play with her new toy for a while, amber eyes flat and suspicious, but when it decided that the toy was most probably harmless; it fell into a contented form of slumber.

**

            Artemis Entreri found his way into the corridor towards what passed for the Bregan D'aerthe reference library and database, feeling vaguely surprised that he'd only gotten lost once and with little consequence – he'd nearly wandered straight into the corridor that led to Jarlaxle's office.  Though admittedly the mercenary leader was one of his suspects, he somehow did not feel like meeting him yet.  Instinct, perhaps?  It was likely that he had already spent far too long surrounded by the physical evidence of the mercenary's power – such that he automatically expected that the mercenary had a counter-plan, some form of defense, against everything that the world could throw at him – even _L'Sarol.  Absurd as that may sound, Entreri did not want to take the chance that Jarlaxle may somehow wrest the weapon from him._

He was thankful that the gauntlet was more or less inconspicuous underneath his cloak, except for the occasional alien mutter – there was no other description for the sound – which it made.  

            Uneasily, Entreri came to the realization that the weapon was getting quite impatient.  Occasionally it warmed against his hip, then cooled to the temperature of ice, before warming back to a normal temperature.  It seemed to resent his every step taken in the building, as if it believed he was delaying in his pursuit of the Rogue, and Entreri resented the fact that the weapon seemed to think he should be following its every whim instead of approaching this in a logical manner.  

            Eventually he grew tired of the sounds and the temperature changes, and looked around him – no dark elves – and moved the gauntlet out from his cloak.  It took longer than usual to respond to his wish, and the spiral swirled continuously into dizzying color changes, orange to amber yellow to sea turquoise to dark red to olive green, a thousand colors in between.  Agitation.  Anger.  Frustration.  Confusion.

            "We do it this way first to make sure," Entreri told it firmly, feeling dimly embarrassed of the fact that he was talking to an object.  Tentatively, he stroked the back of his – its – palm, over the spiral, and the colors gradually calmed back to gold and the discordant mutter into an oddly affectionate hum.

            "Now just be quiet… what _now?" Entreri sighed, frustrated, as the gold flared back to red.  The metal threads hissed out of it, though they twined in the air, not attacking, darting the ends around like so many silver snakes.  _

            "Interesting." Jarlaxle stepped into the pale circle of light that the weapon had projected earlier when Entreri had decided that they were relatively out of sight of the busier corridors and could afford not to rely on infravision.  Entreri sucked in a startled breath, half-expecting Jarlaxle to pull out some sort of artifact and take the gauntlet from him.  However, Jarlaxle did nothing other than pause and look him slowly up and down, gaze lingering naturally on the outlandish gauntlet.

            The mercenary leader seemed as calm and collected as ever, though he was idly rolling a throwing dagger in his right hand.  Entreri knew far too well how a semblance of play in the dark elf could quickly and without warning turn into an attack, and he warily reached for the hilt of his sword with his right hand.  As if sensing his uneasiness, the gauntlet started to hum and throb, almost snarling, the sharp sounds, and the threads all stiffened, ready to attack.

            "You'd not need to use _L'Sarol on me, Entreri," Jarlaxle drawled, his Surface Common speech as annoyingly perfect as ever, and Entreri blinked at the pronunciation of the gauntlet's name, but was hardly surprised.  Sometimes he suspected Jarlaxle of having employed the very stones and metal of the walls and streets as his spies.  "Though it is quite amusing how you do happen to have all sorts of strange devices fall into your hands at appropriate intervals."_

            "And how do I know you are not the Rogue?" Entreri raised an eyebrow, not letting down his guard for an instant.

            "Simply this – by the way I understand it, your part of _L'Sarol would have attacked me already." Jarlaxle said blandly.  "Bregan D'aerthe has a few records of it – beginning from its creation from the joint efforts of three House Qaer'rys High Priestesses, one of whom sent an intermediary to fetch you to wield one of the three parts of __L'Sarol… you did not know of that, did you?  Pity."_

            "That was why I was intending to enter the Library," Entreri pointed out irritably.

            "You'd find little of true use there… let alone who the Rogue and the Mage are."  Jarlaxle smirked.

            "And you would know?"

            "Information is power, _khalus abbil, and I happen to have a lot of it." Jarlaxle said without the least trace of modesty, but with a lot of self-mockery.  "I propose a deal.  I can tell you who the Rogue is, and the Mage as well… but you will have to swear on __L'Sarol that you will never use the weapon for ill against Bregan D'aerthe and all that is related to or associated with it without my consent."_

            "You are afraid of this weapon." Entreri said bluntly, vaguely surprised at this development.

            "Afraid is a strong word, assassin," Jarlaxle smiled with his usual insolent charm.  "'Wary' would be a better one, though I know it is useless to play the intricacies of word games with you.  Why not leave it as… I have seen what _L'Sarol can do, and have heard of its capability when it is whole.  I would prefer it if you simply left the Underdark altogether, but who is to say if Bregan D'aerthe were some day to venture to the Surface?"_

            "'Who is to say' indeed," Entreri echoed mockingly.  "_You, I would think.  And how would I know that these records of the Rogue and the Mage are not in the Library behind you?"_

            Jarlaxle stepped aside archly and made an elaborate bow, tipping his hat and sweeping his free hand towards the direction of the Library.  "Feel free to enter and take a look around.  I tell you that you will find nothing – if you do not believe me, then go.  You may even try to seek me out later, after you decipher the code in which we encrypt all our archived materials, _if you can find me."_

            Entreri rather wryly realized that his plan had a large flaw in it – he could barely read the dark elven language, let alone try and decipher codes in it.  Or what if the archives weren't even written in dark elven at all, but in true-code – invented symbols?  

            "Well, _khalus abbil?" _

            Entreri shrugged, and glanced at _L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin once.  Unwillingly, the threads receded back into the gauntlet.  When he looked back at the mercenary leader, Jarlaxle had already carefully wiped all trace of surprise that the human assassin had gained such a degree of control over the gauntlet in such a sort time.  "There seems to be no alternative."_

            "Well, it has been said that the path to wisdom is comprehension of one's situation… now, while this would seem trite – follow me."

**

            Hierathe padded into the soothing atmosphere of her abode and luxuriated on one of the sofas for an instant, closing her eyes and listening to the peaceful sound of moving water.  She had set the transfer-devices such that on the instant of her death, the place would move itself to a designated spot on the Surface World, which had already been prepared for this.  She had been planning all this for decades ever since she got involved in the Game, and felt no regrets.  She did not feel it was likely that she would survive the next installment of the Game, and the thought of that did not particularly disturb her, though when she was walking back to her home she felt an extraordinary resentment at every single individual still living out their scheduled lives, every single individual who spent each day wasting the precious minutes.

            Every single one.

            No use for moody monologues and regrets – Hierathe carefully prepared herself for what may come, then spent some time slowly feeding the koi, watching them dance through the water with half-hooded eyes.

**

            "Your new Crafting, _Drada Dalninil?" Rys'Itae, being the Eldest, spoke first, after they had exchanged the necessary greetings and platitudes to Lloth.  They sat at a round table at Rys'Itae's opulent chambers, a table which had one adamantite scrying bowl set into it before each seat, and a large, main scrying bowl set in the centre.  Each seat was equidistant to each other, and each of the three High Priestesses took their places with accustomed familiarity.  They had been playing such Games at this table for centuries and rather enjoyed it._

            All three sisters possessed similarly slender builds, though Rys'Itae had narrow eyes and a thin, hard mouth, and Rys'Jaer had features that were slightly wider and rounder than her sisters.  According to rank, Rys'Itae wore the most ornate robes, and her snake-whip had four heads, all evil-looking vipers.  Rys'Jaer's had three heads, like Rys'Zaer's, but had rattlesnakes in the place of cobras.

            As was normal, each Qaer'rys High Priestess was accompanied by a constant companion – usually a guardian-Crafting or a favored one.  Rys'Itae and Rys'Jaer both studied Artifice closely, their attitudes a mixture of clinical and physical appreciation.  Artifice was careful to keep his eyes downcast and his posture submissive, wings folded tightly against his back.  He was uncomfortable in his new clothes, though he had been built with the strength to wear them – drow black plate-mail, every piece of metal exquisitely carved and polished magically until their surfaces were dark mirrors which reflected back precise images.  He did not like the way the shoulder-plates restricted his movement, or the heavy cloak that dragged on the ground behind him, or the gauntlets which turned his slender hands into clumsy claws, or the greaves that turned his fluid walk into a stiff-legged, jangling march.  

            He also did not like the black leather collar studded with blood-red rubies, or the long steel chain that hung down from it to behind his Mistress' chair – but since this outlandish costume pleased his Mistress, he supposed that he was glad that she had given it to him to wear.

            She spoke, and again, his world centered on her.  "Yes, _Ust Dalninil.  Except for a few minor infringements, he has been the best of my efforts.  You were correct when you recommended the life-stealing artifacts for Awakenings those centuries ago."  Artifice felt a surge of admiration – through some implanted information, he knew that in reality, Rys'Itae had never done such a thing, but in this way, Rys'Zaer effectively cut off any theological objection Rys'Itae or Rys'Jaer might have about his Awakening.  He was correct in this surmise – Rys'Itae frowned briefly but eventually smiled, and the hulking, centaurish Crafting behind her even seemed to relax his grip on his large greataxe._

            "Ah… and you have such an artifact, _Drada Dalninil?" Rys'Jaer asked curiously.  Her Crafting looked like a fragile Surface bird, iridescent blue and about the size of a hawk, with a spear-like beak and bright, beady eyes.  However, it was not wise to underestimate any of Rys'Jaer's seemingly frail Craftings – there were rumors of some sort of hidden, imbued power in them._

            "Why, yes, _Llarnbuss Dalninil.  The dagger from the __rivvil assassin.  I meant it to be a part of the… stakes of the Game." _

            "A most worthy addition," Rys'Itae said decisively.  "Shall we start the new round?"

            "By your leave, _Ust Dalninil," Rys'Zaer inclined her head.  "The sub-character has revealed the others…"_

            "As permitted by my last throw," Rys'Itae smiled, with a hint of self-congratulation.  It was somewhat justified in this case – a brilliantly lucky roll which had allowed Further Awareness.  "Yes, the next Round will soon start."

            "It hinges on Player _Sargtlin," Rys'Jaer observed.  "Should he decide to go alone, or with his guide? Should he listen, or disbelieve? Oh, forgive my speculation.  Let us begin."_

            "Firstly… some refreshments are in order," Rys'Itae said graciously, signaling to her servants.

**

            Entreri felt dizzy as he left the Clawrift base, nearly stumbling as he walked towards the city.  Was the mercenary speaking the truth about the identities of the other Players, or was it all a lie? The world seemed to have turned itself around – friend seemed to turn foe, and with that left him alone, isolated, solitary.  It was oddly painful now, even though he had thought himself accustomed to his isolation.

            He knew, actually, that Jarlaxle had been speaking the truth.  _L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin seemed to writhe in impatience once Jarlaxle had spoken the two names – oh, that he had not! Entreri cursed himself for being blind to all prior evidence – and also being far, far too trusting.  He had dropped his guard then – he told himself he would not do it again.  _

            Still, the pain of the betrayal scraped at his sanity even though the act itself was not new to him, and Entreri stopped to take deep, meditative breaths.  First he would deal with the Rogue… then the Mage.

            He speculated whether changing out of the drow armor back to leather had been a good idea – but he was used to his old armor.  The drow armor, though well made and would turn blades, was far too heavy for his liking.  Without the use of his dagger and his dagger arm, the armor would have been a further disadvantage.

**

            Drizzt climbed carefully down the slippery natural stairs that the river roaring below had once cut from this level of rock, mining and clawing at its bed until it dug itself twenty feet lower into the ground, where it continued to churn and slash with white liquid blades against the jagged rock and sheer walls.  

            He was thankful that he had brought Guenhwyvar along.  Though he felt some pangs at taking his friend instead of leaving the figurine to Catti-Brie as he had originally intended, it seemed unrealistic to try and tackle the vast network of the Underdark without one naturally gifted in stealth.  Drizzt was sure he'd have gotten lost by now, or have had to use Twinkle for a normal-vision light source, if Guen had not been here.  As it were, infravision still hurt his eyes, especially here, where the river below cast a weirdly beautiful greenish light which was unfortunately of the precise degree of brightness to cause his eyes to toe the line between normal vision and infravision.  

            Annoying, but he knew that predators – those which used infravision, anyway – disliked using this river as a hunting ground.  Here, he only had to worry about those that did not need to use their eyes at all.

            Guenhwyvar paused a few 'steps' below him, one paw gracefully raised, sniffing the air suspiciously.

            "What is it?" Drizzt spoke softly, using the dark elven language.  Hopefully, if whatever his friend sensed was sentient, they might be frightened away.  He reached the 'step' Guenhwyvar was on – and looked around, frowning.  "I see nothing."  He drew Twinkle, and gasped as the scimitar abruptly flared with blue light, a signal that enemies were near.

            The enemy revealed – floating with ease several feet above them – was of such an absurd and extraordinary appearance that for a long moment Drizzt could do nothing but gape.  A huge fish – a carp – not counting the tail, longer than he was.  Black scales that gleamed and reflected blue highlights from Twinkle, ethereal, translucent fins and a tail that fanned the air languidly, as if it were in water, and for a moment, Drizzt wondered wildly if he were, in fact, underwater.

            The fish seemed to realize that it had been seen – and suddenly seemed to sprout several sharp, uneven spikes at various intervals along its sinuous length.  It opened a large mouth, revealing obscenely sharp teeth, and then curved its body and plunged down towards them with horrifying speed.

            Even as Drizzt readied his weapons, Guenhwyvar let out a snarl of fury and fear – something that Drizzt had never heard his companion utter before – and bounded up the steps, charging towards the monster.  Drizzt froze on the spot for a moment, then drew Icingdeath and leaped up a 'step' to aid his friend – and promptly caught a booted heel in the stomach that knocked him down two 'steps', precariously near the edge.

            He rolled gracefully and quickly to his feet, teeth bared, and received his second shock of the day – crouched a 'step' before him was Artemis Entreri, wielding a sword with his right hand, his left arm sheathed in a gauntlet of alien design that gave out a bright light, enough to illuminate much of the underground gorge they stood in, from which many metallic threads hissed out like evil worm-like snakes.

            "Surprise," the assassin whispered softly.

**

            "An interesting manifestation," Rys'Zaer offered as, in the scrying bowl before her, she watched the huge carp effortlessly avoid the lunges of the panther with rapid flicks of the outwardly fragile-looking fins.  The cat, however, was equally agile, and its only wound so far was a gash along its flank from one of the long spikes.

            "No doubt inspired from your Player," Rys'Itae agreed graciously.  "I must admit – with one hand, and with my Player unable to use his gauntlet directly against _Shebali, the odds are somewhat evened."_

            "For the moment," Rys'Jaer agreed, watching her Player intently as he wielded two scimitars with fluid expertise.  "Impressive, this one.  A pity that he is who he is."

            "No one is perfect," Rys'Zaer agreed, "Though it would indeed be a pity to ruin that pretty face." Behind her, Artifice tensed slightly, bewildered at the rush of jealousy that filled his mind as he saw his Mistress openly admire the male dark elf in the scrying-bowl.  Admittedly, the gaze was somewhat scientific, as if she were just noting down the advantageous features that the dark elf possessed for use in later Craftings, or some related activity.

            The dark elf scored a hit with his blue scimitar high on the human's chest – a slash that cut through the human's leather armor and gashed the flesh beneath.  The human seemed to grit his teeth against the pain, swiping with his sword, but though close enough, the dark elf turned, and the sword glanced off mithril armor instead of into one of the openings.

            "Not particularly fair," Rys'Jaer noted, her voice entirely neutral, though Artifice believed that she secretly rejoiced.  Why would she not? Her choice had no handicap, two weapons, and superior armor as well as speed and reflexes – what as more, the gauntlet was not permitted to use its healing powers in the midst of a Player battle.  The battle seemed rather one-sided – the human quickly turning defensive, though there was the occasional flurry of attacks which the drow seemed adept at turning.  

**

            Artemis Entreri felt like laughing at the absurdity of his situation.  He possessed one of the greatest magical artifacts he had ever known – yet here it crippled him, allowing him only the use of one arm to parry and attack, something that was quickly tiring him.  The gauntlet continuously shrieked and writhed, a further distraction, as it vented its frustration at its inability, as decreed by some stupid rules of this stupid Game, to tear Drizzt to little pieces.  

            What was more, though Entreri knew exactly what _L'Sarol d'l'Shebali had taken the form of, he had no idea how he was going to get it off Drizzt's person unless he managed to kill his opponent or knock him unconscious.  He rather doubted Drizzt would allow him to search him for the panther figurine, much less give it willingly to him._

            At least the carp seemed to be winning.  He was rather proud of the idea, actually – the outrageous appearance of the monster was in itself a distraction to the panther – the cat seemed disorientated, though it was attacking bravely.  Stupid, stupid creature.

            The panther screamed when a spike pierced through one of its front paws.  Drizzt flinched violently, and turned instinctively to check on his friend.  Entreri took the opportunity to lunge and stab, though the elf recovered his attention enough such that Entreri only scored a laceration on the thigh.  Missed the muscle, damn the gods.

            "You will _pay for this," the elf promised, attacking with renewed fervor.  At least the gauntlet seemed to understand what Entreri needed of it, and moved of its own volition to counter the blows in its general direction.  Still, Entreri's sword-arm was numbing quickly, and what was worse; a shallow cut had caused his fingers to be slippery with blood._

            He ducked a slash by dropping onto his back, grimacing at the impact, and simultaneously kicked low and viciously with one leg.  Though weighting the boot-soles with adamantite had disadvantages… there were obvious advantages as well.  Drizzt let out a cross between a yelp and a hiss of pain as Entreri pulled the oldest and nastiest moves in street-fighting history (at least for males), and staggered, slipping accidentally and tumbling onto the lower step.  

            Entreri rolled to his feet with a wicked smile, and lightly leaped down, then lunged at his opponent before Drizzt could recover.  Drizzt growled, and admirably managed to block the descending sword, even though he was in obvious pain.  "Damn… you…" he ground out.

            The assassin smiled, and kicked at the elf's face.  Drizzt hurriedly dodged, though barely, and got a boot in the chest for his effort.  Rolling away instinctively, he gasped as the back of his foot ground halfway into nothingness – he was at the edge.  Suddenly, his senses seemed filled with the roaring river beneath him.

            Entreri, oddly enough, did not press his advantage – Drizzt was sure that if the assassin had followed up with his attack and simply pushed, all his mithril armor and agility would not save him from the jagged rocks and the twenty-foot drop below.  Suspiciously, he looked at his adversary.  

            Curiously enough, the assassin wasn't paying attention to him.  Drizzt took a look – just in time to see the carp move in for the kill.  His despairing wail seemed to be swallowed up in the sudden torpor of time, a hideous entropy that forced him to watch the death of his best friend in all its terrifying, destructive detail.  The panther's neck snapped with an audible sound as the carp got a grip and twisted in the air, like some monstrous dancer, then, with another flicking movement, tossed the carcass with ease into the air, describing a symmetrical arc and landing two 'steps' before him.  Drizzt watched, horrified, as the panther's eyes turned glassy, dying, dead… 

            Uncaring of Entreri, he scrambled up the steps, frantically stroking and patting the fur of the body, aware that he was weeping as he whispered incoherently, "No… not possible… why did you not retreat… why could you, how could you die…?" He drew out the panther figurine, touching it helplessly to the inert carcass, in the hope for some miracle, any miracle, but nothing happened, nothing.  "Guenhwyvar… no! _Why, by Mielikki?"_

            "Only in this manner could it die," The assassin's hateful, sardonic voice cut cruelly into his grief.  "The carp, like Guenhwyvar, are both manifestations of _L'Sarol, and can kill each other.  However… "_

            "Be quiet!" Drizzt snarled, dropping the figurine and lunging towards the voice, not understanding what the assassin had said, not wanting to understand, only understanding that his friend had _died because of the assassin.  Startled by the sudden attack, Entreri only barely managed to block the frenzied slashes and thrusts, and was driven back onto a lower step, scarcely keeping his balance.  The human assassin watched helplessly as, at the back, the carp disappeared into the shadows, its function fulfilled, unable to help its master further.  _

Drizzt seemed to positively _vibrate with fury, arms actually trembling for a moment before stilling, and Entreri believed, __L'Sarol or not, his death was reflected in those lavender eyes.  The revelation brought with it an inexplicable capitulation to his fate – even the gauntlet's snarls faded into a barely audible murmur._

            Then Drizzt jerked forward, not unlike some broken marionette, and a blade of orange flame seemed to cut out from behind him, through the centre of his chest, like some grotesque flower with petals of spurting red – apparently having burned impossibly through the mithril armor.  He staggered a step away, blood bubbling out from the corners of his mouth.  "What… "

            Entreri blinked as Drizzt's movement revealed a smirking Hierathe, holding the panther figurine in her left hand, her right hand ungloved to reveal five thin gold rings, one on each finger.  From the rings seemed to spring the orange flame, which encircled her fist in fitful tongues and formed the two foot long, burning blade which had pierced Drizzt from behind.

            And though he had expected this, having been warned from Jarlaxle, his heart still sank, twisting painfully inside him like a knife, as if he were the one stabbed from behind instead of his opponent.  _Betrayed._

            Hierathe d'Aerth was the Mage.

--

Translations and References:

_Khalus abbil: Trust(ed) friend.  The word 'trust' here is meant especially for trust that is foolish or misplaced.  It appears in a certain strange form in one of Salvatore's books, but I don't particularly care.  Makes for an amusing irony, in any case._

_Drada Dalninil: Second sister._

_Ust Dalninil: First sister._

_Llarnbuss Dalninil: Third sister._


	4. L'Faern

Part 4

L'Faern

            Hierathe watched dispassionately as Drizzt collapsed, idly tossing the statuette up and down with her free hand.  "Nice manifestation," she told Entreri conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather.  "The carp."

            Entreri shrugged.  If she wanted to act this way, he could too.  "Thank you.  Your fish were an inspiration."  In front of him, his once-archenemy began to die, convulsing, choking on his own blood, red seeping past the black lips.  Entreri found that it was difficult to muster any emotion other than curiosity at the method of death – a void that he had long ceased to find disturbing.  On his left arm, the gauntlet growled continuously, threads stabbing at the air around it with impotent rage.  For a moment he expected Hierathe to spring at him with the burning blade, after which an extremely short fight would probably commence that would end with Hierathe possessing the entirety of _L'Sarol.  After all, her bit of __L'Sarol seemed to work on other Players… no – Drizzt had dropped the figurine, his part of __L'Sarol, hence opening himself to attack._

            So tactical.  Hierathe slipped her free hand at her cloak for a moment, and apparently secreted the figurine somewhere – the hand came away free and holding a throwing dagger.  Instinctively, Entreri leaped to the side, and heard the dagger clatter away a few steps beneath him.  He managed to deflect the next dagger with his gauntlet, and ducked the next just in time, hearing the whistle of its passage before the discordant sound it made on the rock behind.  

Hierathe's expression was incongruously serene as she aimed dagger after dagger at him – he counted, seven daggers – before finally shrugging and picking up Drizzt's scimitars.  Apparently the rings of her weapon didn't hamper her dexterity, as she twirled the blades gracefully around her wrists – a totally useless display, as she would have known that he wouldn't be intimidated by such performances.  A warning, perhaps?

            Entreri tensed warily, bracing himself for an attack, but Hierathe simply inspected the blades, edged in uneven stains of blood.  His blood.  She seemed to ignore him as she carefully put down the scimitars, and then relieved the now-still Drizzt of his scabbards.  Meticulously wiping the scimitars on Drizzt's cloak, she sheathed them at her hips.  At his raised eyebrow, she grinned impishly; something that, annoyingly enough, made his heart beat faster, though it couldn't have been fear.  

            "They're pretty."  She paused.  "Though I think I'd rename these."  She patted the hilt of Twinkle.

            "And his armor?" Entreri asked dryly.

            "Too heavy," Hierathe said with mock regret.  "Not to mention I can't remember how to remove chain mail – the last time I attempted to, I broke a nail."  Light from the gauntlet caught a gleam in her eyes as she smirked at the apparent joke, and she walked towards him, arms folded under her breasts, the fire of the rings fading away.  He froze, stunned at this, or perhaps he was too weary – the reminder of how tired he should be came crashing down, numbing his arm, making him lower his sword involuntarily.  Damn dark elves and their attack tactics – it was now obvious that Drizzt had been attempting to tire out his arm and then kill him when he was weakened.

            He forced himself to concentrate – this close; he could smell the perfume.  Hierathe was at arm's reach, looking him up and down again, though this time her gaze was clinical as she checked out the wounds.  It would have been so easy to swing up the sword, let the bloodied side cleave through her side and into the kidneys, or maybe higher, angle it up into the heart.  Entreri realized wryly that he knew at least twenty-eight ways to kill her with a sword at this reach, and more than a hundred ways to wound her such that she would, after a long while, die – but he didn't do it.  The gauntlet snarled.

            "Should I kill you now?" she asked idly.

            Entreri held her gaze steadily.  "It would be the most appropriate time for it – I am wounded and tired, leather armor wouldn't deflect a sword if you thrust, you're close enough.  Just a blade through the ribs would do, or the throat."

            Hierathe chuckled at that, even though he hadn't actually meant it as a joke.  "I like you."  She took a few steps closer – far too close, actually – and ground against him, running the hand with the five rings over his chest.  Too shocked – again – to move, Entreri just gaped at her. 

            "What… what are you doing?"

            With the hand, she dragged his head down and kissed him, her tongue invading his mouth and running behind his teeth.  She tasted of something sweet, some sort of food, perhaps, and after the initial jolt wore off, he kissed her back hesitantly.  Women hadn't actually been a very large part of what existed of his social life, and he had not, until now, actually bothered to learn the ways of social interaction.

            The presence of death – or apparent death - in the area was a large put-off, though, and he was slightly relieved when she pulled back.  The gauntlet's spiral, peculiarly enough, had reverted back to neutral gold, and it was unnervingly silent.

            "Name me later when you've healed," Hierathe suggested playfully.  Was she suicidal or was there some trap? "I'd be waiting."  She stepped back and clenched the fist with the five rings – and disappeared, a slow vanishing that looked as though she was being erased from the head down to the feet.

            Shivering, Entreri managed to clean and sheathe his sword without once falling over.  What was wrong with him? Why hadn't he attacked her? It would have been so easy… just a sweep of the sword – so why did he find the idea so repugnant?

            It was unlikely that he had forged such a strong liking for Hierathe on such short notice, so it must have been something else.  He wondered, not for the first time, how much Hierathe had concealed from him about _L'Sarol, and also realized he hadn't actually thought of interrogating her on the information he had offered.  He had been altogether far too trusting of people since he'd met her._

            It didn't take a genius to come up with a possible reason – Hierathe had quite likely done something to him with _L'Sarol d'l'Faern, possibly even in their first meeting at Qaynstone, before he'd gotten the gauntlet that would have protected him from any magic.  Jarlaxle had described each weapon's properties in detail – as bizarre as it would seem, Entreri reluctantly decided that he could only rely on information that the mercenary leader had given him from now on.  All of Hierathe's words were now, irrevocably, painfully suspect._

            Though he still liked her… 

            The area was suddenly extremely distasteful.  Ignoring the two prone figures on the ground, Entreri decided to try and find a place to hide in and recuperate for a while – if he could.  

            He was lost, tired and wounded in the Underdark.  Not a pretty prospect at all.

**

            "An intermission," Rys'Itae said, clapping her hence three times to summon her servants for more refreshments.  Rys'Zaer stretched as discreetly as possible and tried not to yawn – as far as she could tell, Rys'Jaer felt the same way.  They usually only played for a few hues of Narbondel each day, but then this was the last segment of the Game, and they had to wait it out.

            Rys'Jaer took losing with surprising good-nature, saying something about how the Rogue was probably bound to this fate in any case, since he had offended the Spider Queen.  She had actually seemed to relish, like the other two Priestesses, the way Drizzt had collapsed.  The way the blood painted an uneven shape underneath his head and chest, flowing out viscously to describe veined patterns down to the next step.  

            "I am surprised your Player did not take advantage of the situation, _Drada Dalninil," Rys'Itae told Rys'Zaer.  "It would have been easy just to kill the __rivvil and take the last part of __L'Sarol to win the Game.  At this point, the __rivvil is free to use __L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin to heal his wounds and rest, after which he could just Name your Player, seek her, and fight while his mind and body are fresh.  He is a better fighter than she is when they are on an equal footing."_

            Rys'Zaer smiled slightly.  "You speak words of truth, _Ust Dalninil – but as we all know, the enjoyment to be had from the Game stems partly from its unpredictability.  After all, we are Game Masters and not Players."  _

            "True… though I would wonder at the strategy of some of us, _Drada Dalninil," Rys'Jaer said, stressing on Rys'Zaer's title.  Rys'Zaer hid her surprise, wondering if Rys'Jaer had guessed at her strategy._

            "Oh… the working of the mind of _Ust Dalninil would be impossible for us to even begin to comprehend, __Llarnbuss Dalninil," Rys'Zaer said with a skillful interpretation of Rys'Jaer's words.  Backed into a corner, all Rys'Jaer could do was smile knowingly and nod her assent._

            Behind Rys'Zaer, Artifice was now certain that Rys'Jaer had been alluding to Rys'Zaer, but as far as he could see, she didn't seem to have any sort of strategy other than that of surprise, which had worn off and, only recently, been undercut by the strange decisions of Hierathe.  He felt uncomfortable standing for so long – his feet felt sore and his legs were numbing, not to mention that the armor seemed twice as heavy now and growing worse by the minute, but quietly bore the discomfort, hoping for praise later from his Mistress.  Even the hint of praise would have been reward enough.

            "It seems the _rivvil has found shelter," Rys'Itae said, watching her bowl.  They saw the human wearily drag himself into one of the many caves in the Underdark, and point the gauntlet at the entrance.  Threads of metal emerged and weaved themselves over it, turning into a barrier that seemed to glow in the light of the gauntlet.  The human checked the small cave carefully for possible inhabitants, and finding none, removed his leather armor and used the gauntlet to heal his wounds, after which he used his cloak as a mattress and rested his head on his armor, and promptly fell asleep._

            The view of the bowl changed to show Hierathe, who was back in the strange watery residence she occupied.  She was walking purposefully through the rooms, straightening unrelated items, and abruptly the room vanished.  The bowl turned murky for a while, then cleared to show the room in the open of the fabled Surface World, soft sunlight beating down onto Hierathe's room, which was sunk into the ground of a sloping meadow as if it had always been there – the walls had even adjusted themselves so as to more or less fit seamlessly into the ground.  A stream spilled down one of the walls to cascade into the water – and it re-emerged on the opposite wall through a grille to continue its journey down the meadow into a shining blue ribbon of a river far away.  

            As they watched, startled, save for Rys'Zaer, at this development, the open chamber was suddenly covered in a transparent sheet of what looked like glass with just an opening to allow the stream in, and a trapdoor above the stone staircase.  Hierathe shielded her eyes at the sun, looking around, then smiled, satisfied.  She walked up to the staircase and let herself out via the trapdoor, and walked off down the meadow.  The rings on her hand flashed into flame once, and then she stopped protecting her eyes, apparently reconciled to Surface-world vision.

              "Peculiar," Rys'Itae summed up the general opinion succinctly.  Rys'Zaer gave no indication that she would have expected it to be otherwise.

**

            Waking up was difficult.  The cave was uncomfortably stuffy, and promised to get worse if he moved – his back and hip ached from the prolonged contact with stone, and his limbs were stiff and cramped.  Cursing under his breath, he forced himself to stretch and get to his feet, where the performance of several routines of training eventually loosened up his muscles.  He dressed slowly and wandered off to look for food, the gauntlet opening the entrance for him.

            Capture of some wild rothe and finding water was surprisingly easy – Entreri suspected the gauntlet of leading him around, especially when he 'accidentally' found an old cave that still had some usable utensils, pots and fuel for cooking.  Still, if it wanted to be helpful – he wasn't about to complain.

            After he had eaten, listening to the silence of the Underdark, he considered his next move.  An obvious one would be to Name Hierathe and attack, but he doubted that her invitation was to be taken that way – it was quite likely that there was a trap involved somewhere.  But why hadn't she just killed him then, when she had the upper hand? 

            Unless she really _wanted_ to… 

            Somehow, that seemed at this point of time to be a likely possibility.  But why? What had Hierathe understood of the Game – or what had she been instructed to do that he had not?

            Entreri stared at the wall of the current cave he was in, and tried to think.  

**

            "And it begins again," Rys'Itae commented unnecessarily as they watched the human stand up and stretch, having rested in meditation long enough such that the food would not influence his movement.  He was definitely somewhat of an old hand at this.  "Well, _Drada Dalninil, may the better Player win."_

            "No doubt, _Ust Dalninil," Rys'Zaer said, with a slight emphasis on the word 'doubt'.  She looked perfectly composed, hands in her lap, as if she knew of the outcome already.  Rys'Jaer folded her arms and permitted a quick smile to cross her face.  Perhaps the third sister __had guessed after all.  Artifice frowned, glad that the face guard hid most of his expression, and wondered if that would be a threat.  It took his mind off the weariness of his body, at any rate._

            As if reminded of that fact, his right leg promptly felt numb.

**

            The sunlight was glaring, and he was momentarily stunned as bright spots burst across his vision.  Knowing better than to stay still, he blindly jumped away, and hissed when his shoulder scraped a tree roughly.  Something whistled past his ear, and he moved quickly, groping his way past trees and crashing with painful loudness through bushes as his vision slowly recovered, yanking the infravision ring off his finger.

            "I can see you!" Hierathe said cheerfully, somewhere behind him, and there was a loud noise as if something were stampeding through the undergrowth.  Entreri drew his sword and turned around, squinting at the light, and saw a shape approaching with alarming speed.  Quickly, he slashed it aside, and from the sound of rustling leaves and dry cracking knew it to be some uprooted plant dangled at the end of some sort of rope pulley, which meant… 

            Something sharp pressed into the space between his shoulder blades, and Hierathe's voice could be heard over the sudden stillness.  "Boo."

            Entreri sighed.  "Clever."  Residual spots continued to blink out over his vision.  

            "Why, thank you." Hierathe chuckled.  "Right, you move to the left, and I'd run forward.  Then you can stab me through the back where I'd die quickly, preferably."

            "What?" 

            "Do you need me to repeat it for you? I said, you… "

            "You want to die?" Entreri asked skeptically.  "What for?  Don't you want to win this Game?"

            Hierathe laughed quietly.  "Each Player represents a Game Master, yes?"

            "Yes…" The spot between his shoulder blades was beginning to feel uncomfortably sensitive.

            "Each Game Master bets items of value with the others for winning the game… "

            "So why would yours want to lose?"

            "She's the second sister.  Your Game Master is the Eldest." Hierathe realized by the prolonged silence that Entreri didn't understand, and continued dryly, "You really don't understand anything about the dark elves, do you? If I were to win, it is possible that the Eldest would resent it and… oh _vith, it's so difficult to talk to you humans… "_

            "And you're willing to die to…" Entreri, if anything, felt even more confused.  "You're not even a full dark elf."

            "I entered the Game decades ago on the understanding that I would lose," Hierathe explained seriously.  "And during all those decades, I've had about enough of a good life as I could have in a drow city with her sponsorship.  I guess I'm ready to die."

            "Now, unless you want to be difficult – kill me, and take all of _L'Sarol.  You deserve it.  They can't hear us very well, only see us, so it'd seem legitimate this way."_

            "No." Entreri turned around, lowering his sword.

            "Why not?" Hierathe shrugged when he opened his mouth to answer.  "It doesn't matter."  At this, she removed the rings on her hand.  

            The gauntlet reacted immediately, threads hissing out and stabbing with greedy fury, even as he tried to force them back… 

**

            "An ending," Rys'Itae said with satisfaction.  

            "An obvious winner," Rys'Zaer got up from her seat, and bowed.  Rys'Jaer hastily followed suit.  "The prizes are yours, and well won, _Ust Dalninil."_

            "If not for the indecision of the half-breeds, they might well have been yours, _Drada Dalninil," Rys'Itae said graciously.  "We should retire now, for the hour grows late, and we have other entertainments that the Game has caused us to neglect, yes?" She looked pointedly at Artifice and winked suggestively at Rys'Zaer._

            "Your wisdom exceeds description, _Ust Dalninil," Rys'Zaer said solemnly.  "The items will be delivered as quickly as possible."_

            "As would mine be," Rys'Jaer smiled.  

            "We leave now, then."  

More pleasantries, then Artifice felt intensely relieved when the priestesses finally turned to go, straightening perceptively and then following meekly behind Rys'Zaer, wishing the armor would stop clanking.  His wings felt cramped, but he didn't dare to try and stretch them.  

            When they were out of Rys'Itae's 'territory' and had taken their leave of Rys'Jaer, Rys'Zaer said mildly, "So, how did you find the Game, Artifice?"  The snakes at her hip seemed to have fallen asleep.

            "Your skill is beyond the best of players, Mistress," Artifice said fervently.  

            "A simple enough concept," Rys'Zaer said dismissively.  She nodded to the handsome dark elven guards at her 'territory', who stood quickly to attention.  Occasionally she stopped to stroke one idly on the face, hair and body, as though they were all pets to her.  No females that Artifice could see, here – he knew that there were none in Rys'Zaer's apartments.  The nature of his Mistress' sexuality was blatantly obvious.

            "And… there are better amusements." Rys'Zaer smiled as some guards in front of her gracefully opened the doors to her private rooms.  "You are not too tired, Artifice?"

            "Never, Mistress."

**

Postscript

            "I thought you'd search for me sooner or later," Hierathe said calmly.  She placed her hands on her lap and leant back against her wheelchair.  "Was it too difficult?"

            "Rather." Drizzt rested his shoulder against a tree near her, and looked at her carefully.  "I wouldn't have thought of the wilderness on the Surface World as an area for you to retire to."  He paused, glanced involuntarily and self-consciously at the wheelchair, then added solicitously, despite himself, "What happened to you?"

            "I lost." Hierathe said simply.  "The threads of Entreri's gauntlet played havoc with my spine – now I'm paralyzed more or less from the waist down." She stated this matter-of-factly, with no hint of resentment.  "It wasn't possible to fix completely, even with divine magic.  It's a bit complicated, and learning how to live with the chair took a while."

            "Oh," Drizzt said, with pity.  Hierathe's eyes flashed for a moment at this, but it passed quickly.  

            "Do you live here now?" Drizzt waved a hand at the forest, feeling awkward – he had tracked Hierathe and Entreri down with a lot of effort, to try and avenge Guenhwyvar – and now that he had found them – or Hierathe, at least – he felt the righteous anger draining slowly out of him.  Maybe it was the totally unconcerned expression on Hierathe's face, or the quiet beauty of their current surroundings.

            "Somewhere in here," Hierathe agreed.  "_L'Sarol is whole now – with the gauntlet, my rings, and your figurine."_

            "Where is it?" Drizzt demanded.  

            "On Entreri," Hierathe shrugged.  "He's off somewhere getting food, I'd guess.  He complains regularly about the remoteness of this location."

            "You chose it?"

            "I was going to die here."

            "And then?"

            Hierathe stared off into the distance.  "He didn't let me."  She turned back and smiled wearily.  "But he was surprisingly right, later, about how there always is more of life to live when there's someone to show you the way."  She looked away for a moment again, upwards, where the sunlight filtered through the leaves to draw mottled patterns on the ground.

"Sometimes he can be such a bother.  Now – about your figurine – there is no point trying to get it back.  Your panther doesn't exist any more, and it's back as a part of _L'Sarol now as it was in the beginning.  It's best that you save yourself any further heartbreak and leave.  Sometimes __he gets unreasonably protective."_

            "Does he take care of you now, then?" Drizzt frowned.  "I'd have thought… "

            "So did I." Hierathe smiled a lopsided smile.  "People always do unpredictable things – and he is surprisingly patient."  She paused, then added, as if as an afterthought, "That's also a warning, in case you… "

            "I noticed," Drizzt smiled thinly.  "I guess there's no point in threatening you."

            "Just let it go, Drizzt."

            Drizzt shook his head.  "I can't."

            Hierathe sighed as she watched the ranger leave.  Not that he'd be able to find Entreri, since the assassin had (after much argument) made her a promise… she just hoped _L'Sarol wouldn't dump him somewhere else remote like in Kara-Tur._

            She began to wheel herself back to their home, singing a song to the springtime, softly, under her breath.


End file.
